


Hydra Husbands Snapshots

by Bekaylo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, Edgar Allen Poe's Raven blink and you'll miss him, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantasy, Gangbang, Gothic novels, HYDRA Husbands, Horror Story Tropes, It's a mythological creature I can call it what I want, M/M, Mild Kink, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Pegasus - Freeform, Predicament Bondage, Rough Sex, Shameless Crossbones fluff, Slice of Life, Unsafe Sex, Wuthering Heights - Freeform, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bekaylo/pseuds/Bekaylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Tumblr snippets about Hydra Husbands, Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins. Part of one abandoned Halloween fic featuring Steve Rogers and Brock Rumlow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hydra Heights

HYDRA HEIGHTS  
Mistress Romanova adjusted her black pinafore and started on the long walk back to Stark Grange from the market. She smiled and waved to the young Sam and Riley,flying their kites on the village green, but she was in a melancholy frame of mind. Still no news of Brock returning from the Heights - the now bleak farmhouse atop Hydra Heights, which Jack had won supposedly fair and square from Mr. Pierce in a card game.  
Some two miles up the lane she came upon none other than young Master Sitwell,who was Jack’s ward. He was idly playing with his balls by the side of the road and Mistress Romanova saw the opportunity to subtly pump him for any information about Brock.  
with a friendly salutation she offered him a peppermint humbug and asked, tentatively,how things were and how Brock was doing.  
Master Sitwell looked sullen.  
‘Oh, he’s okay, he has Master Jack’s full attention - everyone scurrying around because Master wants it so. Poor old Joseph humping wheelbarrows of hair-gel back from Market every Friday, with his lumbago and all. But he’s ungrateful, that Brock - you know what? Master Jack went all the way to Liverpool in the driving rain to get him one of those harness things the fashionable people wear and he wouldn’t wear it - he said ‘’Fuck you! That’s gay, I ain’t one of your harlots!’’ and Master Jack he - he struck him down!’’  
Mistress Romanova sighed, pleased to note that weeks at Hydra Heights had not ground down the spirit or corrupted the innate grace and poise of Brock, but unsettled at the thought of such discord. ‘’What happened then?’’ she prompted.  
Master Sitwell frowned. ‘’Brock came up to me later and showed me the inside of his cheek and his mouth filling up with blood and I was a bit sorry. But he said ‘You know, sometimes, that Jack… is the fucking hottest thing this side of Penniston crag…’ and walked off and sat in the window, his back to me, and jerked a little and made these noises. I think maybe he was crying? But he is bad, that Brock, ungrateful, and a naughty wicked boy to Master Jack. It was much more fun before he came,’’  
Up at Hydra House, Jack sat at the table listening to the sounds of Brock sourly banging pots in the kitchen. presently Brock came in with cutlery to set the table, flicking his eyes slightly nervously at Jack, then studiously ignoring him as he arranged a knife and a fork at the other end of the table.  
Jack took a decisive breath, stood up abruptly and advanced on Brock, who hovered, looking uncertain about standing his ground or making himself scarce. Jack reached out to grab him by the shirt and his hand recoiled, then tentatively moved on to Brock’s shoulder, fingers and thumb caressing the new, fresh strip of leather there and his eyes moving over the harness thing he had bought Brock.  
A look of wonderment came over his face as he processed that Brock was wearing it.  
‘’You’re wearing it…’’ he said, slightly hoarsely.  
Brock nodded and shrugged and looked down shyly, giving in to something, clearly  
Jack shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘’Looks good on you. You look good,’’ he murmured and slid his hand behind Brock’s neck. Brock looked up again and leaned in for a kiss…and Jack dashed the cutlery off the table with a sweep of his long arm, gripped the back of Brock’s neck firmly and shoved him face down over the table.  
‘’Hey! Too hot, too greedy!’’ exclaimed Brock. ‘’Fucking hot…’’ 

Some phrases, place names and concepts adapted and borrowed from ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte.


	2. Three Precise Explosions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Rollins comes home from work to well-meaning Brock disruption.

Jack was not pleased when he came home from two days away providing three precise explosions - only to find his own place looking like a bomb site - plastic wrapping and polystyrene everywhere in the entrance. Jack found stacks of plates and cans in the kitchen and Brock sitting at his kitchen table, drinking Jack’s beer and looking smug in sweatpants and one of his gay-looking cut-off sleeves T-shirts. Looking like he expected a fucking medal - probably having helped himself to everything and trashed the place just to push Jack’s buttons.

Jack’s response was not positive. ‘The fuck you think you are? Can’t just fucking - what’s wrong with you? If you wanted a beating from me this bad you just had to ASK!’ Jack advanced on Brock menacingly, unbuckling his belt.

Brock put down his can and got up and scuttled around the table, hands out placating, “Hey, come on, Jackie, it’s just some packaging…”  
Jack grabbed at him and Brock darted away, then grabbed Jack’s wrist, a deft twist and Jack had dropped the belt. “Look, look Jack,” Brock pulled Jack towards the lounge. “I’ve got a surprise for you. Come see,”

“What the fuck have you been doing?” Jack dug his heels in to stop Brock dragging him and they crunched on pieces of static laden, squeaky polystyrene. Jack cringed and decided Brock was going to be picking every little piece up on his hands and knees… naked - his shoulder twinged painfully with the pull Brock was still exerting. The little fucker was surprisingly strong, but Jack’s weight nearly always trumped him.

Brock looked frustrated at the impasse. He was not remotely sorry, it would appear, at the mess, and the nerve and the – the way he felt entitled to turn Jack’s house into a pigsty and drink his beer when he wouldn’t even admit Jack was his boyfriend, not to himself or Jack.  
“Look, come on Jack,” persisted Brock. “You like things neat, I know, but they just delivered it,” he tentatively put a hand on Jack’s upper arm. “Come on, I got you something, lemme show you,”

Jack sighed and let Brock draw him into the lounge with a roll of his eyes.

In his living room there was a large PVC leather look sofa, positioned ideally for TV and games console It was exactly like the one in Brock’s apartment - which proved very convenient for two men to spread and sprawl and make out and fuck on. Even when one of them was six feet two inches tall.

Jack swallowed.

“See, just like mine,” said Brock. “You’re always asking me to house sit, so I thought perhaps… I should stay more often. Besides your old sofa was a moth bitten old heap of crap,”  
Jack was thinking Brock was doing what someone really involved with him would do, wasn’t he? Whether he said it or not, he did things like a partner or boyfriend might do, acting like Jack’s house was a home to him. And Brock was more important to Jack than any mess.

“Ok,” sighed Jack.  
Brock tilted his head. “You still mad?”  
Jack shook his head.  
“You sure?”   
Jack shook his head again.  
“Not even a little?” Brock looked slightly hopeful.  
Jack chuckled. “Well…maybe, I might just have to be later, just a little…” He sighed and looked at Brock with a kind of resigned appraisal. “Pain in my ass,” he commented, objectively.

Brock smiled politely at the insult. He was probably playing nice to get a reward. “I could try and make it up to you…you want me to suck you off?”  
“Yeah, you do that,” said Jack. “Wait on the sofa, I’m going for a shower. Sucking me off sounds good, yeah…” Jack turned to walk upstairs for his shower and Brock called up to him, “Hey, Jack, you want my pants off?”

Brock tugged at his sweatpants at the bottom of the stairs. As usual he had his own interests in mind as much as Jack’s.  
Jack tilted his head. “Why would you need your pants off to blow me?” he asked, as if out of casual interest.  
Brock shrugged. “Thought…you might wanna… do more than that,”  
“Just go and wait for me, we’ll discuss specifics when I get there. Scoot!” said Jack, affectionately. Brock grinned and darted back to their new sofa.


	3. Recruitment Gone Sour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock Rumlow has a disastrous 'date'. Jack Rollins picks up the pieces.

The man came round, groggily at first, with a dull throb behind his eyes, then became alert at once to a sickening dread when he stirred and found his wrists were tightly bound to something above his head.

“What…?” he tried to say, but it came out as a muffled grunt because something unyielding - duct tape, probably - pulled at his lips, wrapped around his face, covering his mouth.

“Hi, again,” said another voice and the man remembered a bar, a beautiful hook-up with bright brown eyes and the most beautiful cheekbones he had ever seen outside a fashion magazine. Cocky, almost aggressive, all eager hands, pulling off both their clothes,nipping and nuzzling, edging him towards the bed in the man’s studio apartment, moving things along - but he had rolled over like a puppy when the man reciprocated with a bite to his shoulder. 

Literally whining and pulling the man down on the bed for more - he was not a big man, but he was built like a brick shithouse in a stocky way - more of a muscle Mary than a twink in appearance, but begging for him to fuck him dry, fuck him raw. It was beautiful, he raised the stranger’s hips, hawked and spat on his asshole. Even that was pretty,a dark rose pucker hidden in olive cheeks.

And the man pushed into him, all the way, earning a sharp, hurt but decidedly satisfied growl from his hook-up. It was perfect, he was tight and he was eager, thrusting back into him as the man picked up a rhythm. The man swiftly realised it was going to be over all too soon, he put one arm under the stranger's shoulders to lift him up, change the angle and break the momentum a little. The stranger practically yelped and squirmed back on him, and the man, exercising self-control, scrambled under his pillow for the black refuse sack he kept for special occasions.

This olive-skinned stranger was special…

The man remembered as he came round that his hook-up had gone sour the instant he slid the plastic bag over the brown eyed man’s head, there was a choking, splitting pain in his throat, a flash of olive skinned movement - the man’s dick popping out and bereft in the open air - a fist crashed into the side of his head, white out, black out and now he was on the floor.

His former fuck date was sitting cross legged to the left of him at his feet - the man’s feet were also bound, with shoelaces. Twisting his wrists it felt like his hands were bound with the same. The brown eyed stranger was looking at him with a thoughtful, disappointed expression.

The man wriggled and made what he hoped was an appealing expression with his eyes, toward the duct tape. If he could remove that they could talk, sensibly, he really should have negotiated more, it was the plastic bag that had triggered the stranger's hostility - but to be fair the stranger- Brock, his name was Brock. He remembered the stranger sharing that much, though he had not seemed focussed on talking.

The man flinched as he heard another male voice and a large figure entered the apartment in his line of vision. The brown eyed stranger turned his head to answer the voice,  
“Yeah, he agreed to meet me, but he got freaked out. You know how it goes, sometimes,” said Brock.

The bound man frowned in confusion.

“A recruitment gone sour,” said the large man. “Why is he naked?”  
The brown eyed stranger shrugged. “Does it matter? Come on, you know the drill, Jack. You gonna help me out here?”  
The large man, Jack, tossed Brock a wicked looking knife. “You do it, I’ll help you clean up,”  
The bound man panicked and struggled and grunted frantic protests through the duct tape.

Brock picked up the knife and hesitated, looking at the man.

“Recruitment my ass!” said the Jack and squatted down next to the stranger. He leaned in close to the brown-eyed man’s face. “What the fuck did he do?”

Brock turned his face to whisper in the large man’s ear. Jack smacked him across the back of the head and snatched the knife back from him.

“Okay… I’ll do it, but you owe me - and you’re gonna start paying the minute I get you home,” he hissed and Brock swallowed and nodded.

Then Jack was looming over the bound man with the knife. The man started screaming through the duct tape while the brown eyed stranger, Brock, looked on, mesmerized.


	4. The Haunting of Hydra Hill House on Haunted Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intended as a light hearted Halloween fic along the lines of classic horror stories.

Steve Rogers turned up the collar of his jacket against the gathering night and approaching rain and took a last look at the village. Small, picturesque with one motel and surprisingly friendly local. Steve made a mental note to return some time if just for the small arts and crafts store. A solitary raven was perched on a billboard outside one of several welcoming little cafes in Steve’s peripheral vision.

He looked at the ominous black clouds on the western horizon. If he got going now he could reach Saranac Lake in an hour or so. He was probably not going to miss the rain, but that was not the end of the world, he was enjoying his time off from a stressful job and if the charming old lady in the motel was to be believed, things could be a lot worse.

She had urged him not to set out at night, in October, because the spectral monster known ‘Croce di Ossa’ was said to haunt the woods and roads, folk had been found with their heads stoved in - and in some cases their bodies ‘vilely defiled’. Steve had thanked her for the warning and assured her his bike was fast and he had no intention of lingering on the roads. Such local legends were quaint after all - and probably a good way of encouraging tourism, judging by the Croce di Ossa key rings, mugs and T-shirts at the general store.

Steve had even bought one, a keyring for his bike keys, a small black figure with white ‘X’ on the chest and a white skull outline over the face. He looked kind of cute, Steve felt, somehow, rather than menacing. He rolled the little effigy in his hand and a shiver ran through him, tingled from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine and his dick, inexplicably, twitched.

The wind was strong now and colder. Steve hooked the little ornament to his keys, started his bike and left the small village behind him, starting down a road through the leaf changing woods. The wind stripped a fresh crop of leaves, orange and gold and red, from the trees behind him. They lay on the road in his wake like dead, natural confetti.

In the village, the raven took flight and flapped up against the wind, speeding over and past Steve on his bike and giving a signal caw half a mile ahead of him. Something metallic snapped and unravelled across the road and a dark figure turned its head at the sound of an approaching engine, then melted into the woods. 

********************************

Steve grunted and stirred, finding himself on soft undergrowth, a mouldy smell and damp leaves in his face. He must have come off the bike.

He shook his head to clear it. There was a chorus of startled birds and the sharp sound of flapping wings above, something scuttled into leaves to his left and there was a heavy weight upon him. The leafy ground tilted disconcertingly. He must have a concussion. 

Hot breath at his neck - something he’d read about wendigos or werewolves came to mind and a primal fear of being pinned and grabbed by the neck like an antelope under a lion - but there was a strong, sweet smell filling his nostrils and soothing him somehow. Yes, surely a concussion.

Another bird called, a screech owl. “Fuck… look at that ass.” replied the wind. It must be the wind.

The wind was certainly loud in what remained of the leaf canopy above, there was rain coming. For some reason, though, he was naked from the waist down in the leaf mould and undergrowth, pants round his knees and something - a branch between his legs, up against his perineum, moving, pushing against his balls. A heavy weight, moving with the branch and something curling around his dick beneath him.

The sweetest, sharpest pleasure beneath and a rutting branch behind (rutting, why would he think rutting?) “Oh baby, so good… is that good? Fuck,” Hot breath on his neck, sweet smell, sweetness, squeezing, pulling, tilting like concussion and spilling on the leaf mould. The little animal that had scuttled into the leaves nibbled his ear and the screech owl said “...Fuuuck…” More hot spilling down his thighs.

The heavy weight was limp and unyielding, he was trapped. But he felt too good to move, it was nice like this and he must be concussed. When the weight shifted off him, there was grunting and then a strange hydraulic sound.

Steve lifted his head, seeing the corner of a leaf in front of his left eye, stuck to his cheek. Approaching sheet lightning illuminated the scene and Steve thought he must have lost his keychain in the slide from the bike, because he could see the Croce di ossa figure, blue, black and white in the flash. But it was life sized and adjusting its suit at the crotch and Steve thought this sure was some concussion.

*********************************

Steve grunted and stirred, finding himself on soft undergrowth, a mouldy smell and damp leaves in his face. He must have come off the bike.

He shook his head to clear it and there was the sound of a startled bird, the sharp flapping of wings and he remembered - who would put a spike strip across a country road? He felt groggy and disorientated and for some reason sticky. Perhaps he should have listened to the woman in the village.


	5. Succulent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally a flashback in a longer story with a younger Brock Rumlow in an abusive relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would have featured in the Arezzo series, being part of planning a negative experience backstory for Brock Rumlow. But a flashback to the events preceding this seemed more appropriate.

Succulent

Brock stepped out of Matt’s car into the bright desert sunlight, taking a pair of shades off his streaked, bleach blonde head and covering his eyes. The air was hot and dry but surprisingly pleasant for Brock, who had always favoured warm weather. It was very pleasant in fact, the outside air, fresh compared with Matt’s hot-baked car and clean compared with the Vegas hotel room he had awoken in. 

Matt slammed his driver's’ side car door shut and Brock jumped ever so slightly. It had been a pleasant few seconds until his present circumstances cut in. Then he was aware again that he was standing in the Nevada desert because Matt had kindly promised him a trip out here for being a good boy. That he wanted to see the desert and was getting to do exactly that because Matt was pleased. Matt being pleased was very important, after all, if you have a boyfriend you do things to make them happy. Then they do good things in return.

Brock and Matt were on leave and had gone to Las Vegas because one of Matt’s friends was having a bachelor weekend there. Matt was so pleased with Brock, he had been a good boy for the bachelor party - he had been good for four months. Brock had done what Matt said and looked like he was ready to party, blond streaks in the longer part of his hair at the front, a clip on earring and he was wearing the tight pink underwear Matt liked under leather pants. They were soft cotton, Matt said they had a ‘virginal’ look. Matt and his friends had a thing for virginal, Brock had learned in the motel four months ago. Matt had had three private parties since then and the bachelor party last night in Vegas. Brock had been so good.

Matt whispered in his ear and slapped his ass encouragingly after they were gathered and drinking, loosening up and Brock did a seemingly impromptu strip in front of Bill, the groom-to-be. He was wearing a pair of purple Victoria’s Secret panties (Bill’s favorite, according to Matt).

Bill grinned from ear to ear and put a free hand over Brock’s crotch, feeling the combination of silk and pert little escaping bulge of scrotum. 

“A special gift for your last days of freedom,” said Matt, smugly, making a toasting gesture with his can of beer. There was a ripple of lewd laughter and cheering aimed at Matt as much as Bachelor Bill. 

Matt was kind of the top dog of this group, the most popular. It was something to do with when most of them had been in college with him, some frat thing. Brock hadn't been to college, but he got the idea. It was also do with Matt coming from a family with a lot of money. Not least it was also that Matt had always come up with great ideas for fun things to do. Brock was currently the fun thing to do and was apparently the most popular thing Matt had done for them.

Brock knew his cues. He started unfastening Bill’s pants and knelt down slowly, ceremoniously taking out the groom-to-be’s already stiffening dick. It wasn't as nice as Matt’s dick, in Brock’s opinion, just because it wasn't Matt’s, but he lavished a great deal of attention on it because it was Bill’s bachelor party and he was being good for Matt. Bill almost stumbled back against a table grabbing at Brock’s hair and fumbling around trying to deposit his drink on the table as Brock began using his lips and tongue on the bachelor boy’s cock.

Brock chuckled nervously around his current task as Bill’s centre of gravity changed, one hand on Bill’s hip for purchase and the other on his balls as part of the gift. It was kind of funny. Bill was quite easily pleased and quite easy on Brock, as Matt’s friends went. He called Brock ‘twinkie-twinkletoes’ and sometimes tickled him to to make him laugh if he cried.

Not that Brock minded crying; most of them seemed to like it when he did and there was no shame. Everyone knew Brock was a little faggot painslut here, that was the point. There was no pretence. And there was Matt as the consolation for everything.

After blowing Bill, Brock was wiping his mouth when Jonathan slid his arms under his armpits and claimed him. 

“Hey, I get first dibs, it’s my party,” muttered Bill. He was half serious, though realistically he was in no state to fuck Brock next right then.

Jonathan pointed that out, pulling Brock to a sofa. He was a big man, carrying weight that was not muscle. Brock had to push a pouch of fat up to blow him, though mainly Jonathan liked to just fuck Brock. Jonathan had been, technically Brock’s first time getting fucked in the motel room four months ago. Jonathan had popped his cherry, but Brock liked to still think that Matt had been his first - after his friends had all had a turn, but still, it was how Brock liked to see it.

Jonathan settled in with Brock, pulling off the purple panties and pouring a little beer into Brock’s asscrack. Jonathan was creative like that. He was also demanding and unnecessarily controlling considering Brock was always a good boy for Matt. Jonathan was soon doing him from behind, holding Brock’s arms out behind him and pulling on them. 

Brock had bitched about it the second party with Matt’s friends and Matt had slapped him across the back of his head and told him to play nice. Brock wanted to play nice for Matt. Now he focussed himself on trying to accommodate Bill - it was his bachelor party and he had appeared ready for more in front of Brock. Brock found it difficult to keep Bill’s dick in his mouth with Jonathan pulling and pushing and ramming into him. There was chuckling about it and Matt was saying something about putting it on the Internet. Bill helpfully grabbed Brock’s head to keep him steady, which was good of him.

So the spitroasting went more smoothly after that, just the meaty slapping of Jonathan’s belly fat on Brock’s ass and Bill grunting happily and fucking Brock’s face. 

Of course when everyone had had a turn in Brock’s mouth or ass, Matt took over. That was the best part of course, for Brock, as always.

The thing that worried Brock was he kind of liked it, now. Matt had always been good as his word, be nice to my friends and you get me babe. It was the reward, getting Matt at the end. He didn't mind how sore he was by the time he got Matt because Matt seemed to know how to mix that with hitting his sweet spot and saying all the right things. 

“You like that, you like taking all these dicks, you greedy little faggot? So tight for me, baby, so fucking beautiful,”

Brock didn't even mind the others watching, once Matt had him no-one else got a look in and he was proud of being Matt’s. 

But four months was enough time to recognise the man was hiding his own gayness behind this and having a guilt free arrangement with friends. Brock was struggling to wake up and remember that he was Brock Rumlow and this was not the way it was going to be.

Four months was enough time for the love struck idiot to wake up and realise that all the names Matt called him were the names he called himself and Brock was an outlet. Love was nonsense and Brock had let himself forget that. He still wanted to forget that as the desert sun blazed on the scrub and cactus. It was beautiful and Matt was still his beautiful first proper boyfriend and Brock’s eyes only wanted to open to this beauty.

There were cactus plants growing naturally in the scrub. Matt and Brock walked away from the road a little ways and Brock looked at an unusual clump of desert plants with interest.

“Succulents,” explained Matt. “They take what moisture they can get in the desert. That’s why they look swollen,”

Brock took that as a hint. He guessed Matt wanted a blowjob, talking about things being swollen. He swiftly knelt and put his hands on Matt’s zipper. That was wrong.

“No, you stupid little cockslut!” snapped Matt, and slapped Brock’s face. He did not like Brock assuming he knew what Matt wanted. “I’m going to fuck you, out here, because you wanted to come here. I am trying to be nice!”

“Oh…” muttered Brock. “Sorry,”

Matt knelt down with him and tapped his arm. “Turn over,”

Brock turned around on his hands and knees and let Matt arrange him with his face down and his ass in the air, pink panties pulled down with leather pants - which were sticky and uncomfortable in the heat anyway. There was a clump of different cactus plants, most of them green, a couple of orange ones to his left. They had spines, of course, but they looked nice. Unusual.

Matt spat behind him, but mostly went in dry. Everything was burning hot and prickly, stinging like little spines. There was sand in Brock’s mouth - his own fault for gasping into the raw desert ground. A few drops of moisture from his treacherous eyes on the sand. The cactus plants could take little drops like that and thrive. So could Brock, because Matt saying he was so fucking good above him was like rainfall in the desert. He absorbed it like the cactus and stored it for the dry times.

Next to them, flowers bloomed on a cactus. Everything came into bloom with the smallest hint rain, even out here. Even Brock, in those few months that he thought he loved Matt, and that Matt loved him.

After those few months, the dry spell was to last for years. 

 

.


	6. Flight of Fancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for the delightful iainkillsrobots (LittleAntichrist)  
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAntichrist/pseuds/iainkillsrobots  
> Crossbones brings home a Pegasus for Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For iainkillsrobots
> 
> Based on a comment Iainkillsrobots made on a comic segment featuring Crossbones. He acquired a Pegasus flying horse and instead of killing it, decided to take it home to his 'girlfriend' because 'Chicks like ponies' after all.
> 
> 'Jack he's bringing you home a pony!' observed Iainkillsrobots. Well that seemed to be the only rational conclusion in any Hydra Husbands setting.

Jack Rollins huffed over the scattered parts of his motorcycle engine. It was hardly a puzzle to him but these days prolonged tinkering and wrench use made his now finger depleted hands ache annoyingly. 

Just this final reassembly and he would finally hear the engine roar into life. He would call Brock and take him on a long anticipated ride, up to the big lake to the west. Perfect for fishing and fucking. If he could just get this final reassembly done he could stretch his fingers and relax. Then if he just knew where the fuck Brock had got to he could call him…

He picked up the wrench and made himself focus.

“Hey Jack! I got something for you!” Brock’s sudden, excited voice broke Jack’s concentration and he huffed again, pinching the top of one of his remaining fingers with his own force on the wrench.

“Fuck!” he bellowed and reflexively threw the offending wrench. His temper was short these days, his patience thin. 

There was an answering curse from Brock and a decidedly metallic clang which came from the contact the wrench had apparently made with him. Jack looked up and noticed Brock was wearing THAT thing again. That suit with the whitewashed cross and the helmet with the white skull face. 

Good thing he had been, considering the wrench had struck the helmet.

“Watch out! What the fuck?!” exclaimed Brock, gesturing broadly in the direction of the wrench, which had practically bounced off his helmet and landed seven feet away at a tangent.

Jack ran a hand over his face and suppressed an inappropriate chuckle at the dark slapstick comedy of the situation and a groan of regret. Brock was sometimes grouchy and prickly and more like his old, asshole self after he had been singing for their supper in his suit. Not that Jack ought to mind the arrangement they had with Hydra now, he had a cushy job as an instructor to recruits, plenty of free time to come home and tinker with his bikes. But sometimes he felt like a clapped out old has-been and he worried about Brock all the time.

“You startled me,” murmured Jack, getting up and wiping his hands on a cloth.

“I’ve got something for you,” repeated Brock, slightly peevishly, taking off the helmet because he knew Jack didn’t like it much sometimes. Also because when he had been working Jack was very demonstrative and Brock was quick at getting out of the Crossbones suit when he returned.

Jack came up to him and ruffled his hair, patted his cheek.

“What have you got?” asked Jack, starting to slide his hand around Brock’s waist and plucking at the fastenings on the suit. 

Brock was tempted to answer about available anatomy for Jack’s use, but stuck to what he had brought in addition, for now. 

“Come see,” he said, indulging Jack by unfastening his suit at the other side to let the upper body armour partly fall, partly get dropped by Jack. Brock closed his hand around Jack’s wrist with an encouraging tug, gesturing with his head for him to walk with him.

Having been pulled around the side of the workshop and into the trees next to their secluded house, Jack stopped in his tracks. There was the simultaneous sound of a soft whinnying and the sight of a horse - with wings.

A horse with wings, feathered, eagle-like wings.

“I got him for you!” Brock enthused. “He lets you ride him and he flies!”.

Jack stared at it. “I - where?”

“Long story, tell you later - come on! Get on - he’ll fly us!”

“Fly us where?” asked Jack, stupidly.

“To the lake, I dunno - you’re not scared are you?”

“Course I’m not fucking scared,” Jack was particularly partial to two-wheeled potential deathtraps reaching 110 mph and more. He had never minded flying, though sitting on a horse and flying was not quite the experience he was used to.

Jack thought how weird considering he had hoped to go up to the lake on the bike later and how strange. He knew about an eight-legged horse from Norse mythology which was as real as  
Brock was and he was - and as real as the rest of those myths. Why should he really be surprised about Pegasus, fucking PEGASUS.

“What are we gonna do with him?” he asked.

“Ride him,” 

“Yeah, but long term…?” 

“I don’t know, whatever we want.” It was Brock’s turn to slide an arm around Jack’s waist. “Maybe one day we can just fly away somewhere - like we did before. Only actually fly,” he raised himself on tiptoe to give Jack a peck on the side of his jaw.

“Okay…” Jack squeezed Brock’s shoulders affectionately. “Let’s try him out. Ride him up to the lake. And then I’m gonna ride you,”

“Let’s go!” Brock grinned excitedly. 

Pegasus whickered and spread his wings for them to mount. A local legend about a flying horse was started in time and mainly disbelieved. But Crossbones had indeed brought home a flying pony for Jack that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by iainkillsrobots.tumblr.com/post/137533117665/mostingeniusparadox-fear-itself-the-fearless"

**Author's Note:**

> Some snippets about Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins from Tumblr. They are not part of any current fic or series.


End file.
